Professor Stuntz, In Memoriam: “Grace, Mercy, and Humility”

Harvard Law Professor Bill Stuntz died last week of cancer at age 52. As a tribute, this week we are running personal reflections from current students who have gotten to know him over the past few years. An introduction to this series can be found here and the entire series is here. The following reflection is by guest contributor Katheryn Klimko, a 3L at Harvard Law. She can be reached at katheryn.klimko@gmail.com.

I was blessed to be in Professor Stuntz’s Criminal Justice reading group in spring 2010, his Federal Criminal Law course in fall 2010, and to write a paper under his supervision in 2010. I first met him at Park Street Church my 1L year and was amazed by his graciousness. That summer, he announced that he would not be able to teach the course he was originally scheduled to, and I emailed him, telling him that I hoped for the opportunity to take a course from him in the future and how much I already had learned from articles he had written. He emailed back, nearly immediately, with characteristically Stuntzian graciousness and humility.

When I discovered that his reading group was added to the course list, I was thrilled. That was such a fantastic opportunity to get to interact with him in a smaller setting. He never failed to provide Upper Crust pizza for us (after asking us, in an extremely concerned voice, what our opinion was on their food). In a two-hour reading group, students almost invariably take advantage of any break the professor provides to get out of the classroom. Not so here: the majority of students stayed in the room, wanting to learn as much as we could from this amazing person. Conversation during the break often strayed from the class discussion into politics, baseball, or other various areas. Even in such a small class, there inevitably was a line after class of students wanting to follow up with Professor Stuntz on a point (or two, or three…).

During that semester, I began to take advantage of his office hours. The first couple of times, I had very small reasons for going, questions that I actually could have asked him after class, but wanted more time to get to discuss them and, truly, just to learn from this amazing man’s wisdom. Soon, I developed an idea for a paper that I wanted to run by him. I hesitated to ask him to supervise it, given his condition and the writing he was trying to finish. However, when I made the appointment, he graciously offered, without my even asking, to supervise (again in characteristic fashion: he was rather apologetic for presuming that I would want him to supervise it). That became the greatest blessing because I got to frequent his office hours regularly. Though each visit began with the paper, they inevitably veered off in other directions: family, careers, and just life in general. How I cherished these times. He could easily have tried to limit his office hours, particularly as fall came and his health continued to decline, but he was always available, and willing, to meet.

His fall course was fantastic. He often apologized for what he considered subpar courses due to his chemo, the effect of which he compared to having watched Legally Blonde too many times (which, in his opinion, would not take much). His course, however, was never subpar; on the contrary, it was one of the most engaging courses I have taken at HLS. He poured his life into the course. Though he occasionally admitted to me after class that teaching for an hour and a half was physically draining, he never showed this in his teaching. Rather, he appeared full of energy, indeed of life. His (often self-deprecating) humor was ever-present. When he got a reaction from a joke, he followed it with a second and often a third, until the class was laughing hysterically. Even his final speech was filled with his humor when he observed that the typical professor was supposed to “leap like a gazelle” out of the classroom to a rousing applause — but, having come to class in his wheelchair that day, that was unlikely to happen for him. He followed the humor, however, with the acknowledgment that the course had meant more to him than most because it likely would be the last teaching he ever would do. Sadly, he was correct.

Professor Stuntz, aside from being a fantastic professor, truly was a phenomenal person. His political and religious views were something of an anomaly among Harvard Law professors. He once stated that a true Christian is one who always is more offended by his own sin than by anyone else’s. He exemplified this trait. As a Christian myself, I am all-too familiar with the reputation we sometimes have of being judgmental. Professor Stuntz, however, could never be accused of this. Instead, he was full of humility, grace, and mercy, knowing that God’s mercy on humans requires our mercy on each other.

I was on the receiving end of Professor Stuntz’s humility on many occasions. He never made me feel like anything less than an intellectual equal, even though I know quite well how short of this I actually fell. He reached out to and loved all people, not just those who were like him in one respect or another. He spoke at Park Street Church in fall 2009 about his experiences with death and suffering, and the blessings God had shown him throughout his struggles with chronic pain and cancer. I had read some of his works on the subject, and hearing his message in person was unforgettably touching. He did not trivialize the suffering he, and many others, were facing; neither did he consider them a form of blessing or discipline. Instead, he took comfort in the knowledge that, though he did not have an answer as to the reason for his suffering (except for the fact that this is a fallen world), God truly grieved over the pain he faced. He particularly loved Job 14:15–16, when Job talks to God about what will happen when he dies: “You will call and I will answer; You will long for the creature Your hands have made. Surely then You will count my steps but not remember my sin.”

I will miss Professor Stuntz terribly, both as a teacher and as a personal mentor. He has changed my life. As a teacher, he caused me, a student who had declared upon entering law school that the one thing she knew she could rule out was a career in criminal law, to develop a deep interest in the subject, to the extent that I certainly no longer make such a statement. Indeed, I have subjected my parents to many lengthy discussions (or rather monologues) on my newfound interest in the area. His reading group, which started with an excerpt from Crime and Punishment, has sparked in me a deep love for Dostoevsky’s works. Perhaps most importantly, however, as a mentor, he has made me want, and strive, to be a better person and a better Christian by showing more mercy and less judgment.